


Old Spice

by rubberbird



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Fantasy, Vengeful wanking, gaspard is your friend's racist dad who thinks women can't drive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbird/pseuds/rubberbird
Summary: Trevelyan denied him the throne and blackmailed him. Gaspard decides the best way to respond to this situation is to have a wank.





	Old Spice

When he had heard the fledgling Inquisition had made a mage (a _woman_ mage) their leader, he'd laughed harder than he had in a long time. Not just at the unbelievable naivety and apparent wilful lack of self-preservation of an organisation already desperately in need of credibility, but also with a resigned sort of exasperation that these were the people that he needed to bolster his claim to the throne. These… idealistic fools.

But, as much as the idea of a mage leading an army… bemused him (to say the _putain de_ least), he undoubtedly needed their support. He knew he was losing ground. Waging a war on icons like the Winter Palace rankled a people as fond of icons as Orlesians were. As much as he might loathe the sodding lot of them, the nobles were a beacon of hope to Orlais' common people. They were the hope that one day they might be lifted out of nothingness by the grace of the Council of Heralds. If he crushed that hope for them, he would be punished.

Not to mention that it was exceedingly easy to take power, and considerably harder to keep it. And if he forced that throne out of Celene's hands, he could be very damn sure that it would be forced out of his. He needed a soft touch. A soft touch to disguise the sword he was holding behind his back.

He hadn't expected to have to find it in the Inquisition. A group made up of religious zealots, commoners, and outcasts, and led by a mage who, as far as he was concerned, could be as bloody-minded as the others who had broken their chains and promptly started a war. Make no mistake: he enjoyed war. It was necessary. It was bracing. It made a man a man and reminded one of what it was to be alive, breathing, fighting and bleeding. It separated the canny politician from the true leader. But a conflict fought in fields and towns was more of a brawl than a true war. And mages were not true soldiers. Could never be. They were biologically incompatible with the nature of one. Let one of them step to him. He'd crush their throat under his boot before they could utter the words of a spell.

He snorted and shifted in the seat behind his desk. He stared into his half-empty glass of brandy. The lamp was burning low. The fire had gone out almost an hour ago. But he had no desire to call a servant to tend to it. Just like his study, the palace was silent and dark. More like a tomb for weathered, old statues than a place of ceremony and celebration at that time of night. Which was good. He felt more at home in a tomb than a palace tonight.

The facts were clear. He deserved what he had gotten. A fool didn't deserve reward, and he had been a fool. So certain had he been that the Inquisition was a mere token presence, completely incapable of truly impacting the bombastic and inward-looking nature of Orlesian politics. So low had his expectations been of an organisation that just weeks ago the Chantry was calling the work of heathens and heretics. But he was a solider and he should have known to adjust his tactics. He should have known when he'd met her to tread carefully, but he had not. And now he was to be (to remain) the Grand Duke of Orlais. Perhaps for years. Perhaps forevermore.

The worst of his blunders? He had misjudged and badly miscalculated Inquisitor Trevelyan. His mirth at an army that would let itself be directed by a woman of perhaps twenty-five had clouded the fact that she was accompanied by some brilliant minds. An ambassador who had weathered the bloody politics of not just Antiva, but also Orlais. A spymaster who had been drenched in the Game and knew it better than a spider knew a web. And not to forget Cassandra Pentaghast. Who he had, at first, assumed to be the true power of the organisation, lurking behind the icon. Obscured by the blinding light of the Herald of Andraste.

He sighed and drained his brandy, slamming the glass ill-temperedly down. But no. He was simply bitter about his defeat and it would be deluded to say that Trevelyan had merely relied on others for the victory. An honourable man did not resent an opponent when he had been fairly outplayed. Lady Trevelyan was no fool. And she was no mere icon. He chuckled grimly to himself, running a hand over his shaved head. Maker above, she was no bloodless, sexless fucking icon.

And perhaps he knew that from the moment he had seen her. Or perhaps not. Because— Well, he was a man before anything else. He would not deny that he found her appealing. He grunted another laugh in his dim study. Rather lovely, as a noble would say. A solider would put it in considerably more vulgar terms. He sat back in his chair and spread his legs out in front of him.

She had dutifully, if a little uncomfortably, allowed him to bow and kiss her hand. She had never been at court before, and he knew that. She was a virgin. He had enjoyed her nervousness in the gardens. And the fact she hadn't put her mask on yet. Rather serious eyes. Pretty mouth. And yes, that had been the cue for the first lewd image he enjoyed of her: that delicate, well-bred mouth stretched around his manhood. He hadn't even meant for his thoughts to stray there. But... He idly rubbed his groin.

Later, she had approached him on a balcony alone. Clearly there to get information out of him, try to determine if he truly would shank his own cousin for the sake of power. In return, he asked her a few pertinent questions, disguised as polite enquires on the Inquisition's progress. Where had she learnt how to fight, where had she learnt to lead, what were her views were on the renegade mages. She answered him with an almost aching lack of pretension. She had learnt to fight where she had learnt to lead: in the field. She didn't have time or patience for the mage rebellion, she cared only for an end to the chaos. It could have been bravado, but he happened to admire bravado.

His first thought of her, the florid image of her on her knees and servicing him like an elven servant, returned as he had looked at her. She was wearing her mask now, but those serious, almost pensive eyes were watching him. And as he looked at the Herald of Andraste, he imagined pushing her against the wall and putting his hand between her legs. He thought about running his hands over her body and not caring that they were in public and surrounded by enemies. She had been wearing an unflattering, over-starched suit, which utterly swamped her slim figure. It looked far too heavy on her, like a little girl in her mother's gown. She would feel delicate underneath him. He would get the feeling he might break her if he was too rough, but she would urge him on, fierce and unconcerned by the danger.

The dying fire gave a sputter and Gaspard jumped, suddenly back in his gloomy study with the lamp flickering in front of him. He was touching himself and had hardly even been aware of it. His mind had been so wrapped up in his thoughts of Trevelyan. His cock was half-hard and restrained behind his armour. The dull throb of freshly forming arousal was sitting low and hot in his stomach. Not yet distracting enough to completely disrupt his thoughts.

"Briala thinks you're the one scheming to kill Celene," Trevelyan had said, tone conversational. She watched the garden while he watched her. "I can't doubt her logic. You gain the most from Celene's death."

Gaspard had let his eyes trail down her back, down the line of the awkward suit, to the curve of her rump. He let his eyes sit there for a good, long few moments. He thought about coming up behind her and pressing himself against her. They were both wearing too many clothes for her to really feel what was forming between his legs, but he wanted her to feel the promise. The foreshadowing of what he wanted to do to her.

In his study, Gaspard gripped himself tighter with a gasp. _Void._ The fucking armour was making it impossible. With an impatient tut, he stood up, throwing his seat back. He unfastened his armour with impatient speed and tossed it heavily into a corner. He tore off the embellishments and buckles, throwing them aside also. He tugged the final barrier of his trousers down and collapsed back in his seat, looking down at the head of his semi-erect cock. A thread of pre-ejaculate trickled down the shaft and settled in the curls of hair at the base.

Looking at nothing in particular, he began toying with himself again, running his coarse, broad fingers down the shaft almost exploratively. He was safe from intrusion. The door was locked. And as far as he was concerned, he deserved some relief that night. Trevelyan had blackmailed him and now she was going to repay him as fodder for as many fantasies as he could wring out of their few hours together. Until he could get the real thing. Get _her_ on his cock, to be crass and succinct. And not just his own clumsy fingers.

He slumped down an inch or two in his seat and spread his legs wider. He gave himself a squeeze and began to stroke himself. Slowly. He wanted to tease out the images just a bit longer. He got himself fully hard, rocking his hips just a bit to meet the movement of his hand. He thought about Trevelyan. Imagined it was her hand around his sex. Her fingers playing with him, curiously, a little uncertainly, exploring the lines of him, venturing underneath to cup his balls.

With a groan he mirrored the imaginary Trevelyan's movements, giving his balls a soft squeeze. The heat and throbs of arousal were coming faster now. He had been toying and teasing with the images of her all evening. In some ways, he was surprised he had been able to contain himself through the entire farce and frippery of the masquerade. Though the resonating sting of disappointment had certainly been an effective dose of cold water towards the end of the night.

With a discontented grunt, he threw that thought aside and jerked himself faster. His mind returned to the balcony. If it happened again: the two of them in such an opportune moment of solitude, he wouldn't just let her leave. He would cross the few feet to the doors and close them. When he turned to Trevelyan, he would see alarm in her eyes, even behind the mask that had no right to be obscuring her face. Obscuring it so he couldn't see the full expression as he closed the space between them and took her jaw with his hand, pulled her flush against him.

He jerked in his seat, closing his eyes and letting the image wash over him. She'd put on a show of resistance. She'd protest that someone might overhear them, that she had work to do, that he was trying to cloud her judgement. But he'd push her against the wall, the wall that was the only thing separating them from hundreds of Orlais' nobility. She'd put her hands up against his chest, trying in vain to push him away, but not wanting to. Certainly not wanting to.

He'd rip off that fucking ridiculous mask she was wearing, and his own. And then he'd do the same to her clothes. Or at least the ones obscuring his access to the parts of her body he most wanted to get his hands on. Trevelyan, with her soft, serious eyes, would look at him, no longer trying to fight him off, but urging him to continue. He would spread her thighs, white and soft under his fingertips, and bury his fingers inside of her. He wondered vaguely how many men she had had, while he stroked himself and entertained the thought of fucking her open with his fingers. Being a circle mage, she couldn't have had many. Though he had heard stories about those places that would have made a brothel madam blush.

She would be tight around his fingers, unbelievably tight. He gasped out softly. He tried to keep his strokes stable, but the desire to rub himself raw was strong. In his mind's eye, his fingers were no longer inside Trevelyan and the rest of their clothes were gone. The obstacles and difficulties of armour, buttons, straps, and layers were removed in smooth, effortless succession.

He gripped her thighs, shoved her up and hard against the wall, and pushed into her. He savoured the breathy, strangled cry that came from her, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders and neck. He looked closely at her face, her eyes fluttering closed and her mouth slipping just slightly open. She would moan his name—

"Void!"

The word echoed around the study's stone walls. Gaspard thrust upwards in his seat and a string of confused, heated images darted across his mind as he strode the final steps towards his climax. With his mind a collage of wanton fragments of Trevelyan, he came with a guttural sound in his throat and a jerk of his hips upwards. The ribbon of ejaculate seeped down the crown of his cock.

He fell limp in his seat as he felt the euphoria of his orgasm begin to leak out of him. He gazed up at the ceiling, idly teasing out the last drops of pleasure. The fire spluttered again and he turned his head to the side to look at it. The last dying embers were nestled in a pile of crumbled kindling.

 _Would he ever be Emperor?_ He furrowed his brow and closed his eyes.

Would he ever bed Trevelyan? That seemed an almost equally pertinent question as he sat there in the dark, having just indulged in one of the more pathetic self-soothing methods known to man. She had outplayed him. She had help, but she was no more a foolish, pretty-faced figurehead than Celene was. She was not to be underestimated. Much like the Empress should not have been. To be born an Orlesian royal was to be born of and into fire.

With his legs still splayed and his clothing still undone and open from his belly to his knees, he let a few thoughts play across his mind. The outcome of the masquerade was not the death of his ambitions. Could not be. He was loath to resort to dishonourable, underhanded conduct, but if the fate of the Empire rested upon it, did he have a choice? He sat up straighter in his chair, staring ahead as though seeing himself clearly in a mirror for the first time.

Trevelyan was a mage. She was also an unknown. Who knew what lay in her past? A blood mage lover? A dead templar? A secret, extremist manifesto? His agents would dig deep and they would dig wide. Something in her past would be unearthed, something he could use to persuade her to consider his claim again. He had few allies within Orlais, especially after what had happened in the Winter Palace. He would have to bide his time, wait until the country wasn't under the shadow of war. He would wait. He would plan. But with the Inquisition at his back, could he be ignored?

He couldn't help but smirk to himself, rubbing the rough stubble on his chin and cheeks. Thoughts of the various and lurid things he could extract from Trevelyan with the right information were feverish and heady. She would be angry. And she would hate that she had to bow to him. He could see the blaze of injured pride in her eyes as he laid out how it was to be, as calmly and impassively as she had when she had taken his empire from him. And then he would lay her out.

He groaned tautly, clutching his manhood in his hand and squeezing. An alliance. A partnership. She would fight him every inch of the way, but a difficult battle only made the war itself more satisfying to win. With the smirk loosening into a satisfied line, he let his eyes close, feeling he could sleep. He hadn't thought he would sleep well that night. But he was suddenly feeling rather… optimistic. Play his cards right, tread the tightrope carefully enough, dodge and weave Celene's mind games, and he could have everything. Not just the empire that was rightfully his.

But the Herald of Andraste herself.

**Author's Note:**

> THE WINTER PALACE WAS MERELY A SETBACK.


End file.
